


Five Things about Finduilas

by havisham



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: 5 Things, Father-Daughter Relationship, Gen, Siblings, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-04
Updated: 2013-02-04
Packaged: 2017-11-28 05:12:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/670650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/havisham/pseuds/havisham
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five things about Finduilas, daughter of Orodreth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Things about Finduilas

**I.**

The first thing was that she loved to climb. 

As a child in Minas Tirith -- the only child in Minas Tirith -- she did so determinedly, chubby fingers gripping the smooth white marble of the steps. Soldiers and servants, lords and ladies made way for Finduilas, no one dared to get in her way. 

But sometimes her father would come along and scoop her up and tuck her under his arm. He would go along his business. Until, of course, she started to squirm and asked to be let down. He would look down and say, “Why Finduilas! What are you doing here? Isn’t your mother looking for you?” 

But as soon as he put her down, she would demand to be taken up again. “Can we go _up_ ,” she asked, working hard to be polite. And her father would pretend to consider it, even as he held out his arms for her to climb on to. 

And up and up they would go until they opened the very last door and that cool air would slap at their faces, bring with it a scent of rain. The sun had gone down long ago, and outside the weak penumbra of lamplight there was the charcoal black of night, and the stars only sparks of light against it. 

She hugged her father’s chest, delighted. There was only air above them, and darkness swirling below and around them. But they -- they were a strong tower, a beacon of light. Of hope. 

They stood still until someone called them in. 

**II.**

When Minas Tirith fell, she was already many miles away, letting her horse rest a little before continuing the hard ride south to Nargothrond. Gil had been handed to her, already wrapped up for the journey, and they had ridden for the better part of the night. Both of them were tired and more than than a little frantic as he had spat up bits of waybread that she tried to feed him. 

He whined quietly that he wanted _mother_ , not _her_. Finduilas pushed her heavy, golden hair out of her eyes, she hadn’t had time to tie it back. Her temper, already badly frayed, broke at last. 

“If you do not be quiet,” she said in a fierce little whisper, “I will leave you here for the _orcs_ to eat.” 

Gil screwed up his face and cried louder, she had to bite her tongue to stop herself from saying any more. Soon they were on the road again, she urged the horse to go faster and faster, sick at heart. When they had finally come arrived in Nargothrond -- the two of them were the very last of the survivors -- she found her father standing alone in the hall. With Gil struggling in her arms, she asked if their mother had come before them. 

“No,” Orodreth said shortly, “she and her party are thought to be lost.” 

Gil started to cry, and this time Finduilas did not stop him. 

**III.**

When Finrod suggested that they send Gil to be fostered away, Finduilas protested. “Surely he would be safest here?” She looked at her father for support, but he looked away, shamed. Finrod gave her look that was all warm sympathy, that made her snap out angrily that of course, no one _needed_ to listen to her. 

Calmly, Finrod only said that Gil would be safe. She took it to mean that they would not be. 

\+ 

She kissed Gil’s forehead for the last time, and wanted to say -- _I hope you can forgive me. Don’t forget about me!_ Instead, she smiled and smoothed away the hair that fell onto his forehead. “Goodbye, little brother, I will see you soon.” 

Gil narrowed his eyes. “Liar!” 

**IV.**

In some years, the dresses she wore were so elaborate that she she could hardly move in them. But she trained her steps to be slow and deliberate, her gaze to be grave and reflective. Nargothrond had no queen, of course, but she grew to be in all but in name. 

Gwindor, the silly boy, insisted that he loved her. 

_Faelivrin_ , he called her, though of course she herself had never seen the Pools of Ivrin, and could only guess at the beauty of the sunlight on them. They were betrothed in short order, and would, on occasion exchange a few polite kisses in view of their approving parents. 

Duty, honor, obligation, it was all there. And love too, of a certain sort. 

She knew that it was foolish to expect more. 

When he went off to war, he asked her to wait for him; it was just the sort of ridiculously romantic thing that he would ask. She smiled, and said, “Of course,” and thought, what else am I going to do here? 

When Gwindor failed to return, everyone sent their condolences. Even her cousin Celebrimbor emerged from the forge -- blinking a little at the sudden change of light, for him -- and patted her on the shoulder, getting dark smudges onto the brushed velvet. 

“I’m sorry about Gelmir,” he said. 

She thanked him and did not bother to correct him. 

She wished that she could go out, climb a set of stairs to see the stars. But Nargothrond, beautiful though it was, was closed to the stars. 

**V.**

She didn’t die, not right away. She couldn’t -- she couldn’t bear to look down, now. It was clear that Túrin would not come for her. If she concentrated, she could remember how -- how it had been, when Gwindor had come back, as stooped and gnarled as an aged mortal man, bringing with him -- well, he called himself Agarwaen then, which was clearly a false name. 

She had called him another name, Thurin, a secret. 

But there was no secret in her love for him. It was plain for everyone to see. 

Oh, how she had loved him! 

His handsomeness was a sort wholly new to her -- there was nothing polished or smooth about him, and for the first time, she began to appreciate what Lúthien must have seen in Beren.

Oh, but he did not care for her at all! 

It was too late now -- her poor father, he had been as affected by Túrin as she had been -- 

Her thoughts grew sluggish, and her breathing slowed.

Oh, poor Gwindor, he had suffered so terribly, but -- 

Had she really wronged him? 

Did she _owe_ him --

_Love..._

“No,” Finduilas said, though no one heard her. And then she was extinguished.


End file.
